


The Wizard in the Tower

by Snarkoleptic



Series: Precipice and Flight [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Companion Piece, Dragon Age 2 - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarkoleptic/pseuds/Snarkoleptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After almost twenty years, Davin Hawke recalled to an exhausted Anders what pieces he could remember of a story as told by Sister Dara of the Lothering Chantry. This is that tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wizard in the Tower

**Author's Note:**

> This companion piece to The Smallest of Deeds also serves to answer a Cheeky Monkey prompt for a fairy tale from Ferelden.  
> 
> 
> * * *

_Once upon a time_ , in an age before the Avvar rose in a tempest of fury against Tevinter, in an era before the rise and betrayal of our beloved Andraste, the world existed in a state of poverty and excess. Very few in this time lived with such decent comforts as you and I might know today, children. During this time, kings feasted daily upon the richest banquets with the most loyal of their nobles in attendance, clamoring for notice and favor that they might again be invited to partake of the royal splendor. Also during this time, the common folk suffered, exhausted and weary of the labors their lords demanded, sick and weak from starvation and grief. Very little of society found any medium between these two extremes.

Perhaps you'll be surprised to hear that this life was considered proper and just by all, from the kings themselves to the lowest of the servants. The privileged nobility could scarce bear thinking of the rats and the ticks and the filth that followed the common folk about their daily lives. The impoverished servants and laborers could equally not understand how the nobles could breathe in their king's favor like the very air, exhaling _such_ condescension for those who had no wish to be noticed. And those fortunate few who existed between gave thanks to their ancient gods when they retired each night, that they might return the next day to a comfortable bed and their peaceful obscurity.

One day during this time, a poor shepherdess undertook a journey from her home built of sticks and mud, situated as it was so very far from any civilized settlement. She had been growing sicker by the day, and was certain her time was upon her, her illness made so much more painful by the knowledge that her four young children could never care for themselves after her passing. And so the poor shepherdess gathered her children close and set out for the city she had learned of from the wanderers to whom she had offered succor. With each step, she prayed with every ounce of strength she had left that she could hold on long enough to see her young ones to the orphanage she learned stood in this city.

But it was not to be, children. The exertions and trials of her journey wore away her constitution more surely than the illness that bade her travel. And so it was that with days yet remaining to reach the grand city, the poor shepherdess collapsed upon the road, barely able to find her breath, with her terrified children clinging to her skirts and begging for a miracle to make their mother smile once more.

Their desperate cries of anguish took hold to the wind and were carried away, soon reaching the ears of a man who stood in a room at the top of a most magnificent tower built of blackest stone and purest marble. This man lay down the task at his hand, setting aside packets of herbs and bubbling flasks, and tugged thoughtfully at the gray and ragged beard that at its length reached his navel. He heard the pain and the misery that had intruded upon his silence, and then he _listened_ to the need concealed beneath. And he made his decision.

Smoothing down robes that hinted of the very night sky itself and gathering the gnarled branch he called his staff, this man – this _wizard_ – slowly descended the spiraling steps at the edge of his tower, ignoring the startled cries and shocked whispers of those apprentices and laborers who served him. He continued downward and left his tower for the first time in longer than any of us have been alive, so moved was he by the tender music of suffering that had caught his attention.

After walking for a time, he found this woman lying upon the ground, scant breaths away from her last. With a gentle hand, he gathered the children away from their dying mother and turned to her once more, pressing a hand toward the road where she lay. As he summoned his power, the children gasped in awe, watching the swirling hues of deepest blue and brightest silver as they billowed about his dark robes and rose to the sky, settling again in a magical blanket upon the poor shepherdess.

When the spell was complete, the wizard offered his hand to help the poor shepherdess to her feet, and he commanded her: "Rise, good woman, and prepare your children for the lives that lie ahead. Your task is not yet complete, and your time is not yet near."

After a moment in jubilant embrace with her children, the shepherdess turned round to offer gratitude to the man who had seen her able to care for them once more. And he was gone, as if he had never been. And so she gathered her children close, journeying back to her flock. It is said that she herself lived to a wizened old age, telling all who passed seeking succor at her door of the man who had been her salvation.

In the fullness of time, word of the wizard had reached the ears of all in the land, commoners and nobility alike. The common folk had no need of such foolishness, they said, ever too practical in their poverty to indulge in idle fancy. Nobles and kings, however, could easily imagine the luxury that might be afforded by such a power, and for years upon years they dispatched their underlings to shout their demands for the wizard's favor from the base of his glorious tower.

Occasionally, as the servants and apprentices took their leave on errands for the wizard, one might be accosted for entry such that a pilgrim might gain audience with the wizard. And so it was that word spread through the land that harassing the wizard's helpers was sure to meet one with swift and very final retribution. One such tale told of a great spark of lightning that descended from the sky, leaving nothing but ash of a man who had dared grasp a servant round her arm.

In all this time, the wizard never again left his tower, unconcerned with the petty desires of those in the world who indulged so well. But neither did he shutter his window to drown out the sound, fearful that he might yet miss hearing another song of sorrow such as had drawn him to the side of a poor shepherdess so many years ago.

And so it was, children, that when a man arrived to shout his plea above the clamor and din of those already gathered, that the wizard again took heed of the tone. This man's voice, deep and commanding, reached his ears, even as the urgency of his plight was carried in his words.

"Please, good ser," the man begged. "The drought has denied our harvest, and our men have all but naught to feed their wives and children. Our younglings are to waste away in the streets, too weak to cry out. I am their king, good ser, and I have failed in my service to them. I must thus beseech you for your aid."

The wizard heard sincerity and grief, and once more took up his gnarled staff and smoothed his midnight robes. He arranged a satchel over his shoulders and made his way slowly to exit the tower once more, holding captive with a wave of his hand those present to curry his favor. As he regarded the man who would call himself king, he observed a weary frame, weak of exhaustion and bearing all the marks of starvation. The wizard realized this king had sacrificed his luxury that his people might live. And so he made his decision.

Days later, they stepped into the farmholds at the edge of the kingdom, the wizard peering through the windows of the homes as he passed. These were not built of mud and stick, he noted with approval, but of stone and mortar as befit those who would nurture the king's lands for his people. And within those homes he saw the men who sat their tables with no food before them, the plea in their eyes that their wives and children consume the meager portions to be found.

Within one such structure, he observed a most curious sight. A family gathered round a bed, a young child slick with fever, the healthy imploring the stricken boy to partake of any or all of the scant food to be found. The wizard stepped inside, withdrawing from his satchel a flask with liquid of a lively blue, and without a word tilted the tincture against the lips of the boy. Neither did the wizard speak as he exited the cottage, even to acknowledge the amazement and gratitude that followed him as the boy's color returned and he rose from his bed. It is said that this boy grew to become a mighty general, defending the lands against the hostile armies that would encroach upon them.

The wizard was satisfied that this kingdom was worthy, and so he summoned his power once more. The crowd that had gathered now gasped as one at the vibrant hues of deepest green and brightest gold that circled round his person. As he stepped into the fields, the crops sprang into abundant glory in his wake, maturing and ripening before the eyes of the tearful onlookers.

But his task was not yet finished, children, for the wizard had seen such an outpouring of love and concern in this kingdom that he could not bear to fill their stomachs only once. Stepping free of the crops he had restored, he placed himself in the center of those fields that were yet barren and called upon his power once more. Startled worry now spread amongst the grateful onlookers, as his magic this time swirled around him in hues of deepest black and brightest lavender. The wizard raised his hands to the sky and brought about the most terrible clap of thunder the citizens of this kingdom had ever heard. As this dark power reached the clouds, the fields in which he stood became drenched under a mighty torrent that fed the reluctant plants beneath the ground.

And though the wizard stepped into a clearing and disappeared behind a flash of lightning from his storm, never to be seen again, it is said that the fields of this kingdom remain bountiful at harvest even to this very day.

Now, children, this wouldn't be a proper fable if we were not able to take something away from it, some truth to guide us as we live our so decently comfortable lives in _this_ era. Before you return to your families and your chores and your leisure, perhaps one of you can tell me what that truth might be?

Excellent, young Carver Hawke. You are correct. We should ask never after our own desires, and seek always to tend the true need of others. As ever, you all have been a most gracious audience, and I bid you now good day until next the traders come.


End file.
